The Ultimate Cheesecake Challenge
by Teya
Summary: Stardate 55295: Tom claims he can create a replicated low-fat cheesecake that tastes better than Seven's traditionally-baked high-fat confection and Seven rises to the challenge. C/7 and P/T fluff, post-"Endgame" timeline. Follows "Once More to the Journey."
1. One

DISCLAIMER: It's Paramount's galaxy. The story is mine.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Tom claims he can create a replicated low-fat cheesecake that tastes better than Seven's traditionally-baked high-fat confection and Seven rises to the challenge. The stakes are high, the competition fierce—and the weather is lousy. C/7 and P/T fluff, post-"Endgame" timeline. Follows "Once More to the Journey" in the _Becoming Light_ series.

"The Good, the Bad and the Ugly," music by Ennio Morricone, 1966.

With gratitude to my mom, who makes the best cheesecake in the known universe.

Archive with permission.

#

THE ULTIMATE CHEESECAKE CHALLENGE

Stardate 55295.89

Seven sat in the mess hall at Starfleet Command watching the rain lash against the windows. 0530 and the sky was slowly fading from black to gray. Again, no sunrise. Chakotay had told her that the dawn over the distant mountains on a clear day was an impressive sight, however in her 3.62 months on Earth, she'd yet to see it. She had yet to see the mountains, for that matter. Or the sun. This location had offered no clear days.

On a viewscreen on the rear wall, a Federation News Service announcer cheerfully reported San Francisco weather as worse than that on Ferenginar. Seven thought that he might be attempting to lessen the impact of his summation with humor, however his efforts were unsuccessful. One glance out the window told her everything that she needed to know: it was cold, it was windy, it was wet. There was nothing cheerful to report. She made a mental note never to visit Ferenginar.

"Good morning." Chakotay deposited his coat on top of hers at the end of the table and leaned over to kiss her. Rainwater dripped from his hair onto her face. "Beautiful day," he said cheerfully.

"'Beautiful' would not be my first choice word," Seven said, squirming. "You are dripping on me."

He smirked and brushed the raindrops from her cheek. "Can we try that again?" he asked as he sat next to her. "'Good morning, Chakotay, what a surprise! I'm so happy to see you!'"

She smiled sheepishly. "I'm sorry," she said. "My mood is reflecting the weather. I _am_ surprised to see you. And happy." She leaned over and kissed him. "I thought that you weren't coming to San Francisco until this evening."

"They moved my meeting up—0700 today. I didn't get word until late, or I would've come last night." He pointed to her half-eaten breakfast. "What's that?" he asked.

"A bagel," Seven responded, absently studying the weather conditions outside the window again; they had not changed. "I'm surprised you don't know it—it's apparently a staple of New York cuisine."

"How is it?" he asked.

"It is… dense," she replied.

"Miral loves them," Tom Paris said, setting his tray down across the table from Seven.

Both Chakotay and Seven looked at him skeptically. "Isn't three months a little early to be eating something like this?" Chakotay asked. He picked up the bagel and dropped it to the plate. It landed with a thud.

"Oh, she doesn't eat them," Tom said. "She just gnaws on them. Turns 'em to goo. We freeze them—they make a great teething ring." He shook his head. "Klingon kids are practically born teething. We haven't slept in weeks."

Chakotay snickered, looking at Tom's plate. "Lack of sleep gives you an appetite?"

"Who has time to eat?" Tom asked. "We have a three month-old Klingon in our quarters. Our very _tiny _quarters. Some of us don't live in the lap of luxury like you do."

"I live in a tent," Chakotay pointed out. "In the jungle." It was the truth: his quarters were at an archaeological dig site in Chichén Itzá.

"And I live in a factory," Seven said. This was true as well: former manufacturing space was the only accommodation she could locate with a power supply sufficient for her alcove.

"A very _spacious _factory," Tom replied. "Anyway, we're lucky to get one full meal a day the way she keeps us running—did I tell you she's crawling already? Got to make the most of it." He spread his napkin in his lap and rubbed his hands together. "Now _this_ is a fine example of Terran cuisine, Seven. A Southern breakfast: eggs over easy, sausage, a rasher of bacon, hot biscuit with butter and gravy, home fried potatoes, and cheesy grits."

"I believe the Doctor would call that 'myocardial infarction on a plate,'" Seven said, eyeing his meal warily. "I'm surprised that Starfleet would offer such a thing in the replicator system."

"It's low-fat," Tom said. "Healthy. I programmed it myself."

"That would program the flavor out of it," Seven replied, wrinkling her nose in distaste.

"And the texture," Chakotay agreed.

Seven looked at him and smiled. She was training him well. When they'd first started dating, he was ignorant of the nuances of taste and texture, let alone what wine to pair with what course. He'd eat almost anything out of the replicator, so long as it wasn't animal flesh, carrots or pudding—indeed, he'd eaten Captain Janeway's meals with little complaint—and he thought that Chardonnay went with everything. He'd come such a long way in a short time. She beamed with pride.

Tom shook his head vehemently. "Not if the program's done properly. It's all chemistry," he said. "And physics." He grinned at her. "Science, Seven, science."

"You're going to lose that one, Tom." The three at the table looked up as B'Elanna Torres set her tray down and sat next to her husband.

"Thanks for the support," Tom said.

B'Elanna shrugged. "I have no idea what you're talking about, but I do know that as soon as you say 'science, Seven, science,' you're done for." She planted a kiss on her husband's lips, and then smiled at Seven and Chakotay. "Good morning," she said.

They returned the greeting and Seven retrieved a PADD from her briefcase. "I've gone over your revisions and added my own," she said. "I believe we could get even more from the engines." She handed the PADD to B'Elanna.

B'Elanna smiled. "Thanks," she said. "I do, too. I'll look these over later and get back to you." She scanned the PADD; later was apparently now.

"And congratulations," Seven said.

B'Elanna looked up, puzzled.

"Tom told us that Miral is crawling."

"Oh, that." B'Elanna chuckled. "I'm not sure congratulations are in order," she said. "Our quarters are trashed. It's amazing the amount of havoc a small Klingon can wreak." Her proud smile belied her words.

"I could even program a low-fat cheesecake that tastes better than yours," Tom said to Seven, at the moment interested in something other than his precocious offspring.

B'Elanna looked at him and rolled her eyes. "Lack of sleep is making you delusional," she said.

"I concur with your wife," Seven said.

Chakotay looked at Tom. "Prove it."

"Yes!" Tom said, pounding the table with enthusiasm. "That's what we need: a challenge. The Ultimate Cheesecake Challenge." He looked at B'Elanna. "I'm tired of these 'gourmets' telling me my palate's inferior." He looked at Seven defiantly. "Do you accept?"

"Tom…," B'Elanna said.

"What is the prize?" Seven asked. In fact, she needed none—validation of the superiority of properly-prepared food would be recompense enough—however she knew a wager of some sort was required.

"Tom…," B'Elanna repeated.

Tom frowned. "It has to be good," he said. "Make it worthwhile." He pondered the situation. "Two weeks from now we have the Starfleet beach house in Tahiti."

"Tom…," B'Elanna said again, the warning stronger in her voice.

"It's great—secluded, private. One of the places Starfleet Command puts up visiting dignitaries." He grinned. "One of the perks of being an admiral's kid," he said. "And it can be all yours. You win, you get our weekend."

"Tom! _No!" _B'Elanna whirled to face her husband. "Your father's babysitting." She turned to Seven. "Can you be on call to help out if he needs it?"

"You want me to assist _Admiral Paris_ with your infant?" Seven asked.

"That's the idea," B'Elanna said. "You're good with her."

Seven smiled. She did have the ability to occupy Miral for an entire hour simply by clenching her enhanced hand into a fist—the baby would attempt to pry her fingers open. It was a futile endeavor, but Miral was a persistent child. It was one of her favorite games.

B'Elanna returned her attention to her husband. "It's our first night away, Tom…"

"Don't worry," he said. "I've got this." He turned back to Seven. "So what do you have to put on the line?"

Seven considered the situation. "All right," she said at last. "We have reservations for spring skiing in Kashmir. The most challenging downhill courses on Earth and exotic South Asian cuisine at day's end."

"Seven…," Chakotay said.

"The cuisine prominently features animal flesh," Seven said to Tom. "You will enjoy it."

"Seven," Chakotay repeated. "I was really looking forward to that trip…"

"Do not worry," she said to him. "I've got this." She looked at Tom defiantly. "Do we have a wager, Lieutenant?"

Tom pounded the table with his fist again. "You got it, Lieutenant."

They stood and shook hands.

Chakotay and B'Elanna looked at each other with resignation, and then out the window at the drenching rain.

#

Irene Hansen pursed her lips and furrowed her brow in thought as Seven explained the Cheesecake Challenge to her. "I am confident in my technique," Seven said, bringing up the list of the ingredients on the monitor in her kitchen. "However ingredient quality is an unpredictable variable—the impact of which I'd like to reduce."

"And you want me to tell you where to get all of this?" Irene asked.

"Precisely," Seven said.

Her aunt was an exo-agronomist specializing in melittology at Cornell, the top agricultural research facility on Earth. She'd served as a consultant on several agrarian planets. Her field of expertise also provided—as Seven had learned very quickly upon meeting her—access to the highest quality foodstuffs in the Federation.

Apparently an interest in comestibles ran in the family.

"I will require the first delivery by 0600 tomorrow, so that I can begin perfecting the recipe," Seven explained. "The second delivery must be here no later than 0700 on Saturday morning, the day before the contest. The ingredients must be fresh."

While Irene perused the monitor, Seven poured a mug of coffee for each of them, and then examined the parcels her aunt had brought. She held up a large mesh bag containing dozens of mollusks and raised her eyebrow. "What am I supposed to do with these?" she asked. "Chakotay and I are vegetarians."

"Oh, those are for me," Irene said. "Leave them in the bag and set them outside. The weather's certainly not going to hurt them."

Seven set the mollusks outside the door to her rooftop garden. The rain was still lashing down.

"That's an awful lot of cream, Annika," Irene said, still examining the list.

Seven started cleaning the leeks for soup. "I am making my own cream cheese tomorrow," she said. "It's the best way to control for quality."

"Jerseys are your best bet," Irene mused. "They produce the best cream." She searched her database. "There… Gordineer's Dairy in the Schoharie Valley, upstate New York. Lovely family." She smiled brightly. "They treat their cows very well."

Did contented bovines produce better milk? Seven wasn't certain, but her aunt appeared to believe so and Seven would accede to her expertise.

"Use delivery coordinates alpha for the transport," Seven instructed.

Five two-liter containers of fresh heavy cream and an equal quantity of whole milk materialized next to the refrigerator just as Chakotay and Icheb walked into the room. Their hair was wet with rain and their faces ruddy from the cold and wind.

"Look who I ran into," Chakotay said, clapping Icheb on the back. He stepped around the containers to give Seven a kiss. "What's all this?"

"Your nose is cold," Seven said. "The ingredients for the cheesecake. Irene is assisting me with procurement." She examined the interior of the refrigerator, frowning. "However, storage space appears to be at a premium."

"It's two degrees outside," Irene pointed out, scrolling through a list of poultry farms. "Set the containers next to the oysters; they'll be fine." She frowned at the screen again. "Annika, do you want chicken or duck eggs?"

Seven directed Chakotay and Icheb to assist her with the dairy products. "Duck," she replied. "They are higher in albumen and fat and will produce a superior cheesecake."

"Duck it is," Irene said.

Six kilograms of freshly-milled flour materialized next to the refrigerator. Seven noted Icheb's quizzical expression. "For the graham crackers," she advised him. "For the crust. I will bake them and pulverize them."

"Can you leave some intact?" Icheb asked. "So we can _eat_ them?"

"They'd be really good with some of that cream cheese," Chakotay agreed.

Seven rolled her eyes at them. "This is serious. My culinary pride is at stake." She smirked, remembering Chakotay hovering over her shoulder in the kitchen, picking bits of this and that from bowls and pans as she cooked. He called it "stealing a taste" and it was most often paired with "stealing a kiss." "Don't worry," she said. "I've taken your penchant for sampling incompletely prepared food into consideration. There will be enough for graham crackers with cream cheese."

Chakotay and Icheb smiled and slapped their right hands together in a triumphant gesture. Three dozen duck eggs materialized next to the flour.

Seven looked at her team. She had an agricultural expert and two enthusiastic tasters on her side. She would win this. She gestured to the delivery. "Please assist me," she said.

#

Tom hunched over the counter in his kitchen—his very _small _kitchen—while Harry Kim leaned against the refrigerator, nursing a beer. Tom reviewed the formula on his PADD one last time before uploading it to the replicator. "That should do it," he said confidently. "Computer, replicate program Paris Cheesecake Gamma-twelve."

"How many cheesecake programs do you have?" Harry asked, looking over his shoulder at the living room where a sustained din punctuated by irrhythmic pounding provided the soundtrack.

Tom followed Harry's gaze. He'd grown so used to the noise that he didn't really notice it until someone else did. That someone was usually their neighbors. "Miral's rehearsing," he said, smirking. "We're raising a drummer." He chuckled at Harry's wince before turning back to the replicator.

A slice of cheesecake shimmered into existence and Tom held up the plate triumphantly. "Number forty-seven looks like a success."

"Forty-eight," B'Elanna said, surprising him from behind. "It _looks _good. Better than the last few tries. But how does it _taste_?"

Tom handed forks to his wife and his best friend. "You be the judge," he said, holding the plate out to them.

B'Elanna and Harry each took a forkful and looked at each other skeptically. Wusses, Tom thought. Harry was the first to bite. B'Elanna followed. Tom watched their faces intently.

"Too sweet," Harry said, grimacing. "Did you remember the lemon? I remember Seven using lemon for something."

"Harry's right," B'Elanna said, wrinkling her nose. "Too sweet. And too light. It's fluffy. Cheesecake isn't supposed to be fluffy. This is more like mousse."

"Oh, what do you know? Cheesecake isn't exactly a staple of Klingon cuisine." Tom took a forkful for himself and let it roll around his tongue before swallowing. His face fell. They were right—too sweet and too fluffy. He set the plate on the counter and picked up the PADD again, frowning. "Okay," he said. "Lemon. And if I tweak the molecular structure of…"

The cacophony from the living room increased, followed by pounding on the wall from the quarters next door. He looked at his wife. "She's bothering the Murrays again."

"_QI'yaH!_" B'Elanna muttered, then walked to the far wall—it only took four determined strides and she was not a tall woman— and pounded a reply.

"Is this some kind of communication system?" Harry asked.

B'Elanna returned to the kitchen with Miral in her arms. "Here," she said to Harry, handing the baby off to him. "Bond with your niece." She looked over her shoulder and glared at the wall. "You'd think people in family housing would be more _understanding._" The volume of her voice rose with each word.

Miral found Harry's left ear and pulled on it. "Ow!" Harry exclaimed, attempting to unclench her fingers.

"Be careful," Tom said. "She's pretty strong. She broke my nose last week. I had to go to emergency."

"Seriously?" Harry asked, eyeing Miral warily as she went after his lower lip.

B'Elanna nodded and grinned. "That's my girl," she said proudly.

Tom looked at his team. He sighed. He loved them both, but they really were a motley crew for this mission. He hunched back over the counter and started entering revisions to the formula into the PADD. He'd aced organic chemistry at the Academy. Number forty-nine would be golden.

#


	2. Two

#

Chakotay woke in the middle of the night and rolled over, his arm groping for Seven's body. Normally she'd be there. He'd nuzzle her neck and she'd turn to him, stroking his chest, his back; she'd leave little kisses on his throat, and he'd cup his hands under her amazing ass and pull her body tightly to his. She'd find his mouth and kiss him, hungrily…

She wasn't there. Her place in the bed was empty.

Groggily, he pushed himself up and got out of bed in search of her.

He found her in the kitchen, removing a pan from the oven. "Seven," he said, scratching his head sleepily. He looked at the monitor. "It's 0400. What are you doing?"

She looked up and smiled brightly. "Oh, good, you're up," she said. She set the pan on a cooling rack, then cut a slice each from two identical—to his eyes anyway—already-cooled cheesecakes and set them on separate plates. She put the plates down on the counter in front of him. "Please, sit. I'll get you some tea."

He realized he was awake for good now. He sat. "Some coffee would be better," he said.

"Ginger tea will clear your palate between bites," Seven said, setting a mug in between the plates.

"Coffee will wake my palate up," Chakotay insisted.

She looked at him, eyebrow at an alarming height, then shrugged and poured a mug of freshly brewed coffee.

He took a sip and nodded appreciatively. "Isn't it a little early for cheesecake?" he asked.

She frowned. "Cheesecake contains eggs and dairy and grains. A reasonably complete human breakfast," she said. "Although an addition of fruit would be preferred." She cocked her head to one side. "You eat cheese danishes for breakfast—why not cheese _cake_?"

He couldn't fault her logic.

The rain was making an incredible racket on the roof and they looked up at the ceiling in unison. It was as if the rain god had taken a gargantuan bucket and was dumping it on Oakland. It figured that the deity he'd been named for would be an ornery sonofabitch. "How long has it been raining?" he asked.

"Is that a rhetorical question?" Seven responded. She shrugged. "I'm not certain. It woke me two hours ago."

He sipped his coffee. "You know it rains in Tahiti," he said. He was starting to feel a little sorry for his friends. It didn't seem right to snatch their vacation away from them. Gods knew, B'Elanna needed it—and if she didn't get a break soon, Tom would need it more.

Seven raised her eyebrow. "That did occur to me as well," she replied. She waited expectantly for him to taste the cheesecakes.

He took a forkful of the slice to his left. It was good—Seven's cheesecake was always _very_ good—but he wasn't really sure it tasted any different than the six other cheesecakes he'd tested in the last two days. He sure as hell wasn't going to tell her. He'd find some noncommittal way to pass the buck to Irene, whose palate was so fine-tuned she could tell you where something was grown just by the minerality in the flavor—or something like that. He'd seen her do it. He didn't understand it. He'd grown up on a farm and it had never occurred to him that you could actually taste the dirt in the produce.

He nodded and smiled. "Delicious." He reached for his coffee, but Seven pushed the tea toward him. Her eyebrow was at parade height—at that level, he was never sure which way it would go, up or down. He took a sip of the ginger tea, and then reached for his coffee again. Her eyebrow climbed higher. "It's only right," he said. "I tasted the first one with my palate contaminated by coffee."

Apparently, she couldn't fault his logic. She smiled and shrugged. Her eyebrow lowered to the expectant level. She looked at the second slice pointedly.

He sipped his coffee. "Kathryn's really gotten excited about the contest," he said. Seven would understand how drinking coffee could bring up thoughts of their former captain. It was rather strange the way she'd jumped into it, though: organizing the judging, volunteering to be the master of ceremonies, ensuring a fair fight. It left Seven and Tom to concentrate on the competition, and he and B'Elanna to live with the fallout.

Now that he thought about it, it was right in character.

"Insisting on Admiral Paris as a judge was curious," Seven said. "However, he did give Tom a B-minus in survival training at the Academy, so it's fairly safe to assume that he won't play favorites." Seven smiled broadly. "And Etan is making a trophy."

Chakotay stopped the forkful of the second cheesecake midway to his mouth. "A _trophy_?" he asked.

Seven nodded. "A trophy," she confirmed. "Created by an artist renowned throughout the Federation." She smiled her satisfied smile. "I think a trophy will add to the décor in my kitchen."

He chuckled and shook his head, then ate the bite. It was good—actually, incredibly good. He couldn't explain _why_ exactly, but it was robust and cheesy and sweet and tart and it melted in his mouth. He took a swallow of his coffee—no need to clear his palate and he did need the caffeine. "That's it," he said. "I think you've got a winner." Just in case she might take his approval seriously, he added, "but I'd verify that with Irene, if I were you."

Seven smiled her radiant smile and entered data into a PADD.

His patron deity dumped another bucket on Oakland. Seven looked at the ceiling. "Could we visit a rain-free environment?" she asked.

He grinned. He put his arms around her waist and pulled her into his lap. He nuzzled her neck. "Our thoughts are one," he said.

#

B'Elanna shuffled into the kitchen. Her husband was in what was lately his only position, hunched over the replicator, PADD in hand. His hair was sticking up like he'd just had an unfortunate encounter with an EM discharge, and the shadows under his eyes had gone from their usual new-father faint blue to a violent purple. She tried to remember the last time he'd been to bed.

She tried to remember the last time she had.

"While you're reviewing the database, you might look for bottles with stronger nipples," she said, gesturing to the baby bottle she'd just deposited on the counter.

Tom looked up and whistled softly. "Whoa," he said. "She really shredded that one."

B'Elanna smiled. "Good thing it wasn't my breast," she said.

That got his attention. "Mmmm," he said, burying his face in her cleavage. "Good thing. Your breasts are all mine again."

She sighed and pushed him upright. "Tom," she said. "You look like hell. Come to bed. The program will be here in the morning."

"I can't," he said. "I'm so close."

"Tom," she said. "Give it up. We're going to lose this." For the love of Kahless, what had he been thinking? It didn't matter how much he tinkered with the program—everyone knew those one-bit errors came back to bite replicator programmers in the ass. True, most people couldn't taste the difference. And that's what it came down to: her vacation—her really well-deserved and desperately-needed vacation—was riding on the chance that two of the three judges were like most people. It didn't look promising.

The first judge was an ensign from their lab at Utopia Planitia—Rob Spieler, a real whiz kid of an engineer whose diet seemed to consist mostly of replicated pizza and grape soda, and who hadn't even known that you could actually _bake _a cheesecake until Seven explained the process. They could get lucky with him.

The second was a cadet that she was sure Icheb had a crush on—one Sophie Levesque. She was tall and pretty, with big brown eyes, and was apparently the most promising chemistry major the Academy had enrolled in years. She was also French. Enough said.

And the third? That would be her father-in-law, Admiral Owen Paris. In most families having the father of a contestant as a judge would be a coup. But not in her family. Tom's father was honorable—granted, in a twisted, incomprehensible sort of way. He wouldn't vote Tom's cheesecake best if it wasn't.

Which meant they were doomed.

Kathryn Janeway had insisted on Tom's father as a judge. B'Elanna put a hole in the wall after hearing that news, and Tom and Harry had to talk her off the ledge—keep her away from the com system and transporters so she couldn't tell either Admiral exactly what she thought. Even now, her hands curled into fists when she thought about it. Kathryn _knew _Tom's history with his father. What the hell had they done to her that made her hate them like that?

She took a deep breath and tried to think calm thoughts. She thought of Tahiti and a private beach. She thought about a house on stilts, right over the water when the tide came in. She thought about the curtained sides and the roof thatched with palm fronds. She thought about tropical breezes and orchids. She thought about the big squishy bed. She thought about uninterrupted sex. She thought about being able to sleep for a full six hours. She thought about being far from the Murrays and their incessant pounding on her wall.

Why were they doing this? Kashmir was cold. And she didn't even _like_ skiing.

"Computer, replicate Paris Cheesecake Program Alpha Thirty-five," Tom said.

"Is there any pattern left to the program numbers?" she asked as the slice shimmered into existence.

He smiled sheepishly. "Not really," he said, holding a fork and the plate out to her.

B'Elanna took the fork reluctantly. "I'm really getting to hate cheesecake," she said.

#

Seven stood with Irene at her station in what was usually her dining area, watching the rain lash against the windows. The sun had almost broken through the day before, however yet another storm blew in overnight. On _Voyager_, her crewmates had often extolled the varied and pleasing climate zones on Earth, but she'd observed nothing pleasant about this one and the variety appeared to be limited to clouds, fog and rain. "The garden is looking rather… sodden," Seven said to her aunt. "Is there a malfunction in Earth's weather grid?"

"Not at all," Irene said cheerfully. "Believe me, this Pineapple Express would be much worse without it—floods, landslides, hurricane-force winds." She shook her head; her white curls bounced with the movement. "Back in the twenty-first century, these storms sometimes dropped two feet of rain in a day."

_Pineapple Express_: the colloquial name for a tropical winter weather system originating near the Hawaiian Islands, which took a swift, efficient course across the Pacific followed by a direct assault on the California coast—where it dumped its prodigious accumulation on the western side of the coastal mountain range. This was, of course, exactly where Seven lived. Of all the locations Starfleet could have chosen across the Federation, they chose to place the Academy here. Perhaps they wished to ensure that cadets would long for escape to the artificial environment of a starship. She certainly did.

She looked out of the corner of her eye at Tom, who was at his station next to the replicator. He looked confident, almost smug. Seven _hated_ that expression. She pursed her lips. It could be a mask—his "poker face," she believed he called it. She applied one of her own—her face impassive except for the tiniest of smirks. She knew Tom hated _that_ expression; he'd complained about it enough.

Irene squeezed her arm and wished her good luck as Kathryn approached them. "Are we ready?" Kathryn asked. Seven and Tom looked at each other and nodded.

Seven's cheesecake sat under a linen towel on an aubergine glass cake stand, the color deliberately chosen to contrast with—and visually enhance—the pale yellow creaminess of the cake itself and its golden brown top and crust. She removed the towel with one flick of her wrist.

The effect was… perfection. She looked at Tom defiantly.

Tom turned to the replicator. "Computer," he said. "Replicate program Paris Cheesecake Omega." A well-appointed specimen of a cheesecake shimmered into existence atop an indigo glass cake stand. He returned Seven's defiant gaze.

Kathryn scanned the cheesecakes with separate tricorders, recording the fat content and nutritional value. Her eyes widened as she scanned Seven's. "Well, that's ten kilometers per slice," she muttered.

Then she stepped forward and raised her hand; the crowd parted. Seven wondered if this technique would be taught in her Remedial Starfleet course. She had proven herself able to part a crowd by simply bellowing "stand aside," however Kathryn's approach did have the advantage of dignity, something Starfleet might consider a valuable trait in a command-level officer.

Kathryn looked up expectantly. "Maestro," she said.

Harry approached with his clarinet and began to play, as Seven and Tom picked up their cheesecakes and started a slow walk toward the judges for the presentation. The music was from one of Tom's holoprograms—during what Harry called his "Western period." Seven raised her eyebrow and struggled to keep her face impassive, an ultimately futile exercise.

Tom caught her eye, snickering. "The theme from…"

"_The Good, the Bad and the Ugly_," Seven concluded, snorting back a laugh. She'd become quite skilled at spinning her weapons on her fingers before shooting. She never missed.

The music concluded as they set their cheesecakes down in front of the judges. Kathryn handed the tricorders to Admiral Paris, whose eyebrows raised when he looked at Seven's results. Then he looked at Tom and Seven and smiled broadly. "Well done, both of you," he said. Ensign Spieler and Cadet Levesque smiled and nodded, their gazes firmly focused on the cheesecakes in order to avoid meeting any superior officer's eyes.

Samantha Wildman, a former _Voyager _crewmate, and Yolanda Morales, an archeologist on Chakotay's dig crew, removed the cheesecakes to the kitchen, where they cut them and plated them for the judges. It was a blind test. The plates had been marked on the underside. Only the two women knew which was which.

There was nothing left for Seven to do, so she stood off to the side, 1.6 meters from Tom and B'Elanna. B'Elanna held Miral, and Tom's arm was around his wife's shoulder. They waited. Seven was reminded that she much preferred competitions where the outcome was known immediately: who had the higher score, who crossed the finish line first. Judged events were inefficient. Waiting was tedious and unproductive.

She shifted her weight from foot to foot and looked at the table where the trophy was displayed. It was a cut-crystal pedestal cake stand, twenty-five centimeters from the table to the plate, with an intricate Ilisian geometric pattern cut into the base and stem. Etan had assured her that in direct sunlight, the stand would create a prismatic effect in the room. Unfortunately, the weather had not cooperated. However, she knew exactly where it would be placed once it was in her possession.

Chakotay sidled up to her and put his arm around her shoulder. Seven glanced at Tom and B'Elanna; they were watching the judges intently. "Your mission?" she murmured.

He grinned and held a data stick between his fingers. "Accomplished," he said in a similar tone. "Reservations at a beautiful inn just outside Ragusa."

"Will it rain?" Seven asked.

"Unlikely," Chakotay replied. "They're just entering the dry season. The forecast is for clear skies, low humidity and highs around 22."

Seven smiled broadly and rested her head on his shoulder. It sounded warm. It sounded dry. It sounded… idyllic. Everything was falling into place.

The judges pushed their preferences forward. Samantha and Yolanda prepared to announce the winner.

Samantha raised Cadet Levesque's choice and Yolanda—a very small woman, a mere 1.47 meters tall—peered at the bottom of the plate. "Tom," she announced.

B'Elanna's eyebrows jumped and Tom's face relaxed noticeably. Seven looked at Chakotay. "So much for the superior French palate," she muttered. "Another Terran stereotype obliterated." Chakotay squeezed her shoulder sympathetically.

The two women moved on to Admiral Paris and repeated the process. "Seven," Yolanda announced.

Seven smiled and nodded at the Admiral. Tom looked at his father glumly. B'Elanna looked as if she wanted to break something.

The two women stood in front of the final judge. Seven was anxious—Ensign Spieler did not have a sophisticated palate, and although she had attempted to train it, he was not as fast a learner as Chakotay. She stiffened. She had to consider that Tom might win. That was not in the plan. Indeed, the idea had not occurred to her until that very moment. Chakotay squeezed her shoulder again.

"Seven," Yolanda announced.

The room erupted in cheers. Chakotay kissed her. Seven exhaled a breath that she'd been unaware of holding. She smiled broadly. She had prevailed.

Etan presented her with the trophy.

"Thank you," she said, nodding her head in response to her friends' cheers. She turned to Tom. "An excellent competition, Mr. Paris. You were a worthy opponent." She offered her hand. She could be magnanimous in victory.

"Congratulations," Tom said, shaking it firmly. "It was a fair fight." He could be gracious in defeat.

Samantha and Yolanda began setting slices of cheesecake on the table for the guests. Kathryn uncorked the first bottle of Champagne. Tom hugged B'Elanna's shoulder, while Miral alternately examined her mother's forehead ridges and her own with her fingers. Tom offered a data stick to Seven. "The Starfleet beach house in Tahiti next weekend," he said. "You won it, fair and square." B'Elanna still looked as though she wanted to break something.

Seven held the trophy to her side, protecting it with her body, out of B'Elanna's reach. She smiled at the couple. "Unfortunately," she said, "we'll be unable to use that. We have other plans for next weekend."

Chakotay held up his data stick. "Our reservations," he said, smiling. "In Sicily."

Tom and B'Elanna looked at them. Their mouths moved in unison but no sound emerged.

Seven turned to B'Elanna—still holding the trophy out of her reach—as Icheb stepped forward. "As I will be unable to be on call for assistance with Miral, I've recruited Icheb in my place," she said. "He is sturdy. She will not damage him."

Icheb took Miral from her mother. The infant examined the Borg implant along his nose.

B'Elanna had human tear ducts; her eyes welled over. She shook her head and attempted to regain her composure. "You planned this," she whispered in an accusatory tone. Her voice was hoarse.

Seven was not an accomplished liar, so Chakotay stepped in. "Blame it on me," he said. "I forgot about our reservations. Just completely slipped my mind."

Seven looked at him, eyebrow raised. _That _was the best he could do? He was transparent. A Vulcan could lie better. _She_ could lie better. B'Elanna erupted in laughter. "Chakotay," she said. "You're such a lousy liar." She grinned at Tom. "Next contest? Poker. We could wipe the floor with them."

Kathryn and Etan approached with seven crystal flutes and a bottle of Champagne. "I think a toast is in order," Kathryn said. "Seven, is there some place more private we could go?"

That was Seven's cue. She set the trophy down on the table. "This is still mine," she said to Tom. Then she turned to the others. "Come with me, please."

Miral put her arms out to Chakotay, who took her from Icheb. The baby examined Chakotay's tattoo.

Seven led them out of her quarters, into the elevator and down to the first floor. Tom and B'Elanna exchanged quizzical glances. Seven entered a code into the security panel next to the door across the hall. It groaned open and she ushered them inside.

The room was large and unfinished, with concrete walls, floors and pillars, and exposed circuits and pipes in the ceiling. It was unheated and damp. Kathryn and Etan arranged the glasses on a rough work bench and began to pour Champagne.

"This space is available," Seven said to B'Elanna and Tom.

The couple looked around them, speechless. "You could fit three of our quarters in here," Tom said at last.

"Four," B'Elanna corrected him, her eyes wide. "Easily four." She took Tom's hand and they started walking into the room.

Miral slapped Chakotay's forehead and put her arms out to Seven. As soon as she was in Seven's grasp, the infant began examining Seven's optical array. "Be careful," Admiral Paris said to Seven. "She's strong."

Seven raised her eyebrow and offered her enhanced hand for Miral's inspection. "The array is made of tritanium and is embedded in my skull," Seven reassured the Admiral. "She cannot damage it."

Admiral Paris gave her an odd glance of the sort that Seven was used to, then chuckled and wrinkled his nose at his granddaughter. "Glad to hear it," he said.

Tom and B'Elanna appeared dazed. Seven knew that the space looked daunting—she herself had been overwhelmed the first time she toured what became her quarters. "You can partition it as you like," Seven advised them. "I recommend an open floor plan. Its flexibility is efficient and it will give Miral room to run." She led them to the door to the side yard, which was puddled and littered with rocks and debris. "Irene can assist you with the appropriate vegetation." She peered out the window at the rain. "This weather will ensure that it grows quickly. By the time she's walking, it should be sufficient."

"Just in time for her to destroy it," Tom said, chuckling, hugging his wife.

"Irene has colleagues in turf management," Seven said. "I'm certain they will be able to recommend something robust enough to withstand a Klingon child."

"This is wonderful, Seven," B'Elanna said, looking around the room again. Her expression was more practical on this pass. "But we've got nowhere near enough credits banked to renovate this."

Seven started to tell her that she'd composed a list of people who could be encouraged—or directly bribed—to assist, but Admiral Paris stepped forward and interrupted her, as if on cue. Miral put her arms out to her grandfather and he took her from Seven. Seven looked at Kathryn, who met her eyes and smiled slyly.

Admiral Paris handed a data stick to Tom. "Whatever you need to make this a home, son," he said. He pried Miral's fingers from his lower lip. "There have been ninety-eight complaints logged about excessive noise from your quarters." That was one per day since they'd been living there. B'Elanna blushed deeply, and her father-in-law put a gentle hand on her shoulder. "I don't want my granddaughter growing up where people complain about her being who she is."

B'Elanna's eyes welled over again and Seven knew she was cursing her human tear ducts. Seven often cursed her own. The family hugged. Chakotay put his arm around Seven's shoulder and she smiled a very satisfied smile.

She and Chakotay joined Kathryn and Etan. Kathryn handed them glasses of champagne, then lifted her own. "Nicely done, both of you." The four clinked their glasses together and sipped their Champagne.

Seven shrugged. "The space was available," she said. She would have informed them, even without the contest. She thought that it would be nice to have friends living in close proximity.

Chakotay shrugged. "I live in a rainforest, Kathryn," he said. "I like to get _out _of the tropics when I travel."

"You did not do so badly yourself," Seven said to Kathryn. "Suggesting Admiral Paris for the third judge was inspired."

Kathryn smiled broadly. "Just providing an opening," she said, looking at the family. "They can take it from here." They clinked their glasses together again.

"Shall we return to the party upstairs?" Etan asked. "I believe the music has already started." He smiled at Seven, then whispered in her ear, "And I was promised a song."

"You were," Seven replied in a similar tone. "And so you shall have it."

One performance, one song: it was such a small thing in exchange for such an exquisite trophy. She already knew the place of honor it would occupy in her kitchen. On a clear day—assuming such a thing was possible at this location—the prismatic effect would be extraordinary. It would certainly add to the décor.

###


End file.
